Those who have reached the dream
cry hope,
while those who grow old
in the gray light of poverty
shake their heads.
So shake me loose.
Where is the middle ground?
Or is this overcast life
it?
They say dreams are fickle,
corrupting, even.
As much to peel you back
for spoils
as to give you
false happiness.
But, then,
were there ever white sands
and golden streets?
Were the ones who cried ‘hope!’
gone mad, mirage,
victim to the illusion
the gray light can’t create?
Oh, great world I cannot span,
let me touch such a golden hand
Clear waters, clear skies,
clear reality,
and a break through
of light and color,
from from the stain
of numbers I cannot satisfy,
or the darkness in my brain.
Let me at least taste
of freedom
before I give up hope.
Author T.S. Lowe 